


Holmestuck

by blueshift12



Category: Homestuck, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueshift12/pseuds/blueshift12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is a Homestuck AU of BBC Sherlock. If you're a Homestuck, and have never seen Sherlock, this should still make sense, as it starts from the beginning of the Sherlock TV series. If you're a Sherlock fan, and have never read Homestuck, then this might be REALLY confusing. Sorry,  but them's the breaks.</p><p>The story is set in "Londinium," a sort of London where Homestuck things can still fit in (like trolls). The characters are chiefly from Homestuck, modified slightly to fit the story, but the plot is very close to that of Sherlock. I've also made the illustrations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

[](http://s1052.photobucket.com/user/blueshift12/media/TereziHolmesWindow_zpse6572f74.jpg.html)

Your name is Holmes. Terezi Holmes. Before you is the city of Londinium, but it looks as if it is the entire planet. The city looks beautiful, smells beautiful, but that is just the lie of your synesthesia. There are ugly things brewing out there, there always are. It's what you live for: the scents of the spilled colors of the hemospectrum, and the knowledge that you've helped put some criminal behind bars.

You are brought out of your thoughts by a knock at the front door. You hear Nana Hudson put down her baking pan, walk to the door, and greet the newcomer cheerfully. She is always cheerful-- you have a hunch that's why everyone calls her "Nana". The man who enters greets her cordially, referring to her as ma'am, and then walks up the stairs. Nana mentions something about his new roommate, and it gives you pause. You turn to the door just as the man walks in.

He is wearing heavy boots and an old-fashioned army jacket, along with a skull t-shirt and rather short shorts. His gait has a bit of a limp, and he walks with a cane, but his back is quite straight. Clearly military, and possibly gay.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" you blurt out, before he can introduce himself.

"Huh? I can't fathom how you know, but Afghanistan." He looks bewildered, and you try to hide your smirk. "The name is Watson. Uh, Jake Watson, in case it alluded you."

You look at his pine-scented jacket for a second before commenting. "I can't deduce names, sadly. I'm Terezi Holmes, and you're looking for a roommate. Preferably one who will put up with you gun collection, right?" He carries his hands like he should still be holding a gun, despite likely having left the war a while ago.

"Uh, yes, actually, that would be spiffy, if you'd agree." Jake appears to be someone who would normally have a bit of swagger, but you seem to have surprised him. Deductions tend to do that to people.

"Alright, it's settled then. Rent is six hundred pounds a month, making it three hundred a person, which I think should be manageable even with your small military pension. You'll get the first room on the right-- oh, and tell the movers to bring the big stuff through the window. It's quite a bit bigger than the front door." He looks at you, stunned for a moment, and then nods.

"Thursday it is then, alright. You seem to be a smashing roommate, anyhow." Jake seems to be catching on quite fast. He might even be useful on cases, if he manages to tolerate you.

"Sure, I'll see you Thursday." He takes that as his cue to walk out the door. As he is leaving, you suddenly realize something has gone unmentioned. "Oh, by the way, I'm a consulting detective!" You yell after him, adding, "I hope you don't mind!"

When you're certain he's gone, you try to remember what you were doing before he showed up. It has slipped your mind, though, and so you decide to settle down with an unsolved case and a stick of red chalk. Red always tastes the best.


	2. A Study in Fuchsia Part 1: Wrong!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More introductions, and Terezi is up to her usual antics, frustrating and amusing the staff of New Scotland Yard.

You are now Jade Lestrade, and you are having a bad day. It’s not your worst day on the job, but the horde of journalists collected in front of you would be far less intimidating if you actually knew the answers to their questions. "Serial suicides," the issue currently taking most of your office's (and these journalists') attention, don't normally happen. Three completely unrelated people-- a businessman, a teenage boy, and a politician-- have all wound up dead by the same poison in strange places. It's certainly odd, but that's all that you know.

"You said these incidents are being treated as linked," says the first journalist, "Besides similar circumstances around poisons and locations, is there any other reason these incidents seem to be related?"

You take a moment to think of a response. "Well, no, not at the moment,  but we are certain that if there are any other links, we will find them."

Almost immediately, every phone in the room chimes. A particularly vocal journalist blurts out the message: "It just says 'Wrong'." It's typical Terezi. Again. Sometimes she is just so immature.

It's time for damage control. "We have our best people investigating the case, so I'm sure--" You are cut off by another bout of ringing phones, and resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Ms. Detective Inspector," a new journalist is speaking now, "do you believe that the average citizen should be concerned about their well-being due to these incidents?"

"Um, there is not currently any cause for concern. Really, you'll be fine so long as you don't try to kill yourself." You find this answer to be fairly self-explanatory, and you try your best to deliver it as politely as possible. Still, a cacophony of sounds emanates from the crowd's mobile phones. This time, you look down at your own phone. The message reads: "YOU KNOW WH3R3 TO FIND M3. -T.H." You try hard not to show your frustration, and turn your attention back to the journalists.

After a few more embarrassing phone-related events, the conference is soon over, and with it leaves the reporters and cameras. As you stand in the meeting room, one of your coworkers comes up to you, perplexed.

"How does she do it?" they ask, not entirely expecting an answer.

You just shrug. "If I knew, I'd stop her."

* * *

 

You are now Nepeta Hooper, and you are currently standing in the morgue, watching the world's only consulting detective beat a corpse with a riding crop. You are not looking so much at the body as the detective, though. Terezi is far stronger than she lets on, and her concentration is kinda... hot. You feel your tail involuntarily begin to swish flirtily.

"You wanna maybe get a coffee later?" You ask, offhandedly.

"Sure. I like it black, two sugars." She obviously didn't get the message. "Oh, and you're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick earlier." God, she can be so infuriating (and somehow kinda cute at the same time). Of course you're wearing lipstick, it's for her.

“So, uh, what’s new with you?” At this point, you’re just trying to make small talk. It’s not like Ms. Holmes would notice, anyhow.

“Got a roommate.” Terezi takes another whack at the corpse, then continues, “his name is Jake Watson. Interesting sort of guy." She puts the riding crop down next to the body. "I guess I'll take a pass on the coffee, actually. Jake will be moving in about half an hour from now."

With that,  Terezi walks out,  leaving you to wonder if you've lost your crush to some random guy they had only just met. Then again, it seems more likely that Ms. Holmes has never loved anybody at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that my current style leads to fairly short chapters, but (hopefully) that will lead to more frequent updates. The most time-consuming part right now is the illustrations, so hopefully that will go faster as I get a better hang of drawing with my tablet.


	3. A Study in Fuchsia Part 2: The Fourth Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terezi finally gets her way when Jade Lestrade shows up at her door, asking her for help with the latest "serial suicide" victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are now Terezi, and you are staring at the body of a fanfic bleeding out on the floor. There is no murder weapon to be found, but you suspect it had something to do with the story's author getting distracted by life. It's a typical cause of death for fan fictions, but you ask Jake to examine the body before you send it over to Nepeta back at New Scotland yard.
> 
> Dr. Watson feels around on the body for a moment before putting a hand to its neck. His eyes widen for a moment, and then he yells at you. "It's still breathing! It has a pulse! Terezi, call an ambulance! I think it just needs its latest chapter proofread and it might just come back to life!" You pull out your mobile and dial 999. Today, maybe you won't be solving a murder.
> 
> ( Sorry about the six-month wait. Also, I don't have an illustration done for this chapter yet, but I've kept all of you waiting long enough -Blueshift)

You are now Terezi Holmes, and you are impatiently waiting for some news about a series of dead bodies. You new roommate is currently reading some sleazy rag, and looks more than slightly disinterested.

Jade Lestrade is being uncommonly stubborn with this case, insisting that the deaths were suicides despite your texted protests to the contrary. You know killers like taxi drivers know the streets, though, and this situation reeks of foul play. Your sniffer is practically itching for the sight of some blood, anyhow. Part of you hopes the next victim will be a human, so that you can delight in the scent of cherries as you gather your evidence. Then again, you have to remember that these are murders by poison, not by bloody trauma. But they most certainly are murders.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see police lights approaching. "Looks like they found another body."

Jake suddenly looks away from the paper on his lap and right at you. All he can manage is a single, uninspired “huh?” You can’t help but wonder if everyone is that oblivious.

“The police are here. I’ve been bugging them quite a bit lately about a series of odd suicides-- you must have read about them in the papers."

"So how do you know they've found another body?" Jake is still a bit bewildered.

"Because they ignored me before. So there must be a reason for them to change their minds."

A moment after you say this, Lestrade barges through the door. "You've found another one." You don't even turn away from Jake,  but you can tell from the way that Jade is out of breath that there is something more than just a body this time. "And there's something different about this one, isn't there?"

"They left a note." At this, you turn in place to look at the inspector. "Are you coming or not?"

"Who's on forensics?" You ask, annoying Jade a little bit.

"Karkat Anderson." Jade says this quickly, a bit dismayed. She knows that you two have very little tolerance for each other.

"He won't work with me." You stand for a moment, tapping your foot a bit, then glance at Jake. "I'll need someone else with me-- an assistant. I'll go anyway."

"Well, come on then. I need your help on this case." Jade Lestrade motions for you to leave.

"You go ahead. I'll follow your car in a cab." Jade gives you the address, and then you turn back to your new roommate as Jade walks out the door. She knows that there is no use arguing with you. There never is.

"Well, then, who in tarnations is this assistant?" Jake asks this as you grab your coat and red glasses. He obviously has yet to figure out the answer, although you thought it must be rather clear.

"You've seen a lot of blood, death and violence in your day, haven't you?" You run your tongue across the inside of your teeth as you ask this, eager for the delicious puzzle of a new case.

"Yes, enough for a lifetime."

"Want to see more?" You can see his eyes light up as you say that.

"Oh, absolutely!" Jake reaches for his cane as he says this, eager to leave. You notice that he puts weight on his bad leg as he stands up, and yet he does not show signs of pain. Perhaps his ailment is more psychological than he knows. Either way, his enthusiasm towards your offer is clearly genuine, and he rapidly hobbles his way down the stairs and out the door.

 

* * *

 

You are now Jake Watson, and you are confused. Next to you in the cab is Terezi Holmes, a cipher of a woman who is bringing you to see a crime scene. You're flabbergasted as to why you agreed, and yet your sense of adventure is piqued: you haven't done anything dangerous or deadly since you returned to this dadblasted city. To pass the time, you decide to interrogate the detective on how she knew all about you when you first met.

"How did you know about my military career?"

Terezi looks at you, almost bored if not for her smugness. "You stand with a straight back and yet carry a cane. Your jacket and boots were also military, and yet you don't seem to be the kind to frequent thrift stores. You were clearly and undoubtedly involved in one of the armed forces, then." She says this in a monotone, like it was the output of some easy mental calculus. Perhaps it was.

"What about the gun collection?"

"Ah, something a bit less apparent. You hold your right hand strangely, almost in a fist, with your index finger-- your trigger finger-- slightly outstretched. It is subconscious but trained. Your injury is not very recent, though, indicating that your hand's training was reinforced recently and not in combat. Therefore, you must shoot for fun."

"Huh" is all you can manage as a response. Terezi is obviously well-practiced in deduction.

"Oh, and one more thing: your limp is clearly psychosomatic. I could prove it to you, but I think it is likely you will do so yourself in due time." You can tell she enjoys these deductions thoroughly, gains an ego boost from them perhaps. Oddly, though, she flares her nostrils a bit as she looks out the window, as if she is smelling something. Perhaps she is.

"What in tarnations are you sniffing right now?" You ask this curiously,  intending to inquire but not offend.

"The city." Her answer is blunt, but it is enough.

You know that there are few odors from the city present in the stale air of the taxicab. Instead, you realize that it isn't truly scent that she is sensing. "You have synesthesia, don't you?"

"Good diagnosis, Doctor." She says this in a way that makes it indubitably clear to you that she is pleased with your deduction. It was, in fact, the result of your medical studies that you so quickly ascertained the answer, and this gives you a quick bout of pride.

"So, where exactly is our destination?" You realize suddenly that you have no idea why Ms. Holmes is taking you to a crime scene.

"I'm helping the police solve a crime that they are a bit too stupid to figure out on their own." Terezi always speaks of the police in a very condescending manner, and yet they are friends with her. Not only that, but they actually asked for her help.

"Not to be rude, but why on Earth would New Scotland Yard request the aid of an amateur?"

"Because I am not an amateur. I could deduce all of that about you at first sight, and I was barely trying. I can tell the brand of a cigarette from its ash, the speed of a bullet from the blood splatter, or the time a crime occurred from the mud in a boot-print. I am the best person they know for the job." With this, she flashes her troll fangs at you in a grin. Half of you is confounded as to why you are following her to a crime scene, and the other half is somewhat impressed by her statements.

Still, she didn't answer your original question. "I asked where exactly we're going, though. You know, neighborhoods, street names, that sort of thing."

She replies unenthusiastically. “I dunno, somewhere to the south of town. They didn’t tell me the address. As far as that kind of information, you know as much as I do. Although I have to say, the signs in this neighborhood are delicious.” Terezi has a point about the signs. They are all varieties of neon, glowing with the full spectrum of color visible to your eyes. You suspect that Terezi, as a troll, might see even a few more.

You watch the signs out the window until your cab follows the police car down a dingy side street. Here, the crumbling houses appear to be held up with a perplexing array of rusty nails and old boards. This is certainly not the kind of street you would wish to take an afternoon stroll down. You're not surprised that this is your destination-- it's a superb place for a murder.

 

* * *

 

 

Jake insists on wearing the clean suit. Although you refuse to wear it out of contempt for Karkat, Jake awkwardly jams his arms and legs into the Tyvek garment before expertly pulling on some rubber gloves and following you up the stairs towards the body. Karkat probably would have uttered his usual string of profanities at you for your own refusal, but the fact that you, the one and only Terezi Holmes, brought along an assistant has left him relatively tongue-tied. His silence is so beautiful you wonder why you didn't just get someone else to pretend to be your assistant before.

As you walk up the stairs past the incompetent police force dressed in clean suits, you think a bit about this case. The first clue you have about the murder is the house that you're in. It's fairly old, probably turn of the last century, and seems to have been abandoned for at least twenty years. Where there still is wallpaper, it is coming off of the walls in strips. It's like so many of the houses that you've been in before-- it's secluded and ignorable. In other word's, a criminal's favorite, and you love that. The game has begun.

At the top of the stairs are two stony-faced officers guarding a peeling door. You find their concentration to be atrocious. They ask about Jake's presence, and you Karkat tells them that he is your assistant. The officers break their concentration and almost chuckle-- your uncooperativeness is legendary among the police force. Still, they let you, Karkat and Jake through fairly quickly.

The room beyond the door is devoid of furnishings, save for a single empty desk in the corner. Directly opposite the door is a boarded-up window. Its plywood covering had been nailed haphazardly to the window frame in a way that left a dozen or so rusty nails poking out of the moulding.

In front of this window is the body of a young troll woman, lying face down. Her horns are slightly longer than your own, and curve gently away from her head. She is wearing a garishly pink raincoat, which matches the blood congealing over her gills. This also tells you that she's a fuschia blood, quite a rarity. It is said that there used to only ever be two of them, both female, but that changed millennia ago, if it was ever true. What is still true is that they live practically forever, which makes it uncommon for you to find them on Nepeta's slab.

You stop looking at the body's gills and instead run your gloved hand over its mouth. It comes back with a smear of bloody bubblegum goop. You think the color is delicious, and also shows that whatever poison the murderer used damages a wide range of body tissues. This matches the evidence found on the other bodies, and indicates a particularly unpleasant death.

The woman had died with her right arm stretched away from her body. You look at the floor next to her hand and notice that she had scratched something there: the letters "RACHE." You think it over for a moment, then notice Karkat watching over your shoulder, and Jake beside him.

"Shut up Anderson." You glare at him over your shoulder. He looks bewildered for a moment.

"Shut up? I didn’t even waste a single breath on you. I'll tell your nook to--" Jake shoots Karkat a shocked glance, and the troll storms out of the room, grumbling under his breath.

"What was all that ruckus about?" Jake looks quite flustered, and a bit surprised at you as well.

"He annoys me." You are totally deadpan about this, your attention focused on the body before you. "Tell me what you can about this woman."

Jake bends down besides you, and places his hand on the body's neck. "The troll dame's dead." You roll your eyes at the obviousness, and so he continues. "She's probably been here for a few hours. Rigor mortis has set in, and the body is cold. This blood:" he gestures at the frothing gunk at her gills "seems to indicate that she was done in by some variety of poison, just like those other unfortunate souls. The question is how she got herself in such an unfortunate pickle in the first place."

You were study the body a bit more before replying. "She's not supposed to be here."

"Well, obviously someone put her here-- it's mighty unlikely that she was poisoned by an act of God."

You roll your eyes a bit. "No, I mean in Londinium. Her family doesn't know that she's here, and she'd like to keep it that way. Look at her ring:" you pull the wedding ring off the troll's finger "It's shinier on the inside, indicating that it gets removed often. She's a serial adulterer. She also just got off her train, judging by how damp her hood is." You glance along the length of the body before continuing. “Plus, there are splatter marks from her suitcase on her legs--” You glance around the room and realize that her suitcase is nowhere to be found. If this was a suicide, the woman would have likely kept her things with her.

“Where is her suitcase?” You half-yell this, and Jake looks at you in surprise. You turn to him and quickly say “well, obviously she had one, look at her legs-- and who travels without any luggage?"

"Well, I'd wager that the police probably took it for evidence already." Jake offers this simple explanation, but it doesn't seem quite right. Still, it's worth pursuing, and so you stand up abruptly and head out the door.

“Where is the suitcase?” The incompetent officer at the door just stutters and responds with an uninspired “what?”

“Suitcase.” You pronounce it slowly now, enunciating every sound very carefully. You know that it is a bit condescending but you do it anyways. You are, of course, much smarter than this man. “I am looking for the dead woman’s suitcase, do you have any idea where it is?” He shakes his head slowly.

“There was no suitcase. What you saw is everything that we’ve found that is of any--” You don’t bother to let him finish his sentence, and just march out the door. That suitcase has to be out there somewhere, and you think you know what it looks like, too.

 

* * *

 

You are now confused Watson, and you are Jake. Dagnabit, you mean you are now Jake Watson, and you are confused. Alone and confused, to be exact. Terezi had just taken it upon herself to gallivant out the door in pursuit of a suitcase, not even pausing to give you a second glance. You hobble out the door after her, but she has already traipsed off into the night, sans you, her supposed partner. In dismay, you slouch on one of the police cars and attempt to get your act together.

One of the police officers officers approaches you as you take in the situation. He appears to have a perspiration issue, and seems mildly amused by your predicament. “Terezi is a freak, you know, and she doesn’t have any friends.” His voice is as self-assured as that of a used automobile salesman, and you take an immediate disliking to him. “I think she somehow gets off on stuff like this. She’s butting into business that is very much above her, because she enjoys murders.” He stops to wipe his face off before continuing. “One of these days, it’ll be her who put the body there, I’m almost sure of it.”

The ensuing silence makes you almost want to show this troll man what-for, despite his muscular form. You reckon he might possibly be right, but your gut instinct tells you that this is character is simply a pretentious douchewad. Finally, you muster up a necessary response. “Well, I’m not quite certain about that, but right now I am in desperate need of a bit of transportation out of here.”

“The main road is that way,” he points up the street. “You can hail a cab there.” His response is terse, but it does the job. He is kind enough to hold up the police line tape as you leave the area, but your thanks is merely muttered to him as a formality as you limp off into the night.


End file.
